Summer Light
by melissaisdown
Summary: mirrors/dreams/december memory/michigan/september A nostalgic love story.
1. The Impossible Dream

I. The Impossible Dream

Knuckles clench to white, nails dig deeper with ascending altitude, and gray skylight illuminates the squinting profile of a woman would undoubtedly prefer an aisle seat. It seems worse than it is, she tells herself, but knows that the view is accurate. Something about the narrow panorama is disconcerting. Lisa Cuddy would rather be unaware that the only thing separating her from the vast vacant sky is a thin piece of glass. It isn't fear of flying so much as dread. Dread of being in confined quarters, a cramped cabin, forced to breathe stale recirculated air, surrounded by strangers. And in this case House. Who, at this moment is reaching for her fingers, prying them from the armrest one by one, almost amused by her apparent unease. Then he offers,

"Switch?"

They do. Lightly brushing against each other, her fingers on his hips to keep her balance. Or his. The briefest contact and mutual comfort. This act of kindness on House's part is instigated mostly by a dream. One whose influence has been evident since it came a few nights ago. But he convinces himself he prefers a window seat anyway.

In life, as in the air, there are aisle people and then there are window people. Some able to admit their ignorance, and others who'd rather stare at the uncertain emptiness, confronting it. House never took her for being an aisle seater.Something's changed.

Cuddy's mind is still fixed on the events of their last flight together. Fortunately, this is a short flight. No Korean men convulsing. No vomit. Unfortunately, it is not the only incident she's remembering. The engines drone on a while, she almost falls asleep.

Why they are companion passengers again is a mutual reflection. A phone call from the head of alumni relations at the University of Michigan Medical School. A call to Lisa Cuddy, Dean of Medicine at Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. She was asked to give a lecture for the Medical Education department, coinciding with lectures from other successful alumnus. In other departments. She was flattered, practically ecstatic. Then Michigan asked about House. She admitted he works for her. They wanted him instead. Or rather, they wanted him to give the primary lecture and her a secondary one on administrative ethics and practice. Not on medicine. Or even medical education.

So now, here they are halfway between New Jersey and Michigan obligated to inspire the inspirable. Unwillingly responsible for enlightening a few hundred twenty somethings on the endless joys and infinite treasures found in the practice of medicine.

The patchwork farms slowly fade into the great lakes' arms as they approach the past. This is how memory is, visible but distant, with few exceptions. Something about being a little closer to the sun makes House forget that it is winter. Content watching a few minutes more, he closes the window cover and looks at her. Cuddy seems calm. But House sees what's starting beneath the surface. She's apprehensive, nervous even. And he knows it's not a fear of flying.

A flight attendant announces that they'll be landing soon and should fasten their seat belts. House knocks her knee with his own,

"Last chance to join the mile high club."

Cuddy roles her eyes and ignores him. She thinks of saying 'already a member' but doesn't, knowing it would only add fuel to a fire she has no intention of extinguishing.

When they land, Cuddy seems even more trepidacious, but House passes it off as nervousness at the prospect of public speaking. Or him speaking, really. The man did have a tendency to give three minute speeches that cost her and the hospital six figures. But that is not the prospect that is making her heart race this time.

They rent a car and Cuddy drives the hour from the airport to Ann Arbor. She drives with a certain ferocity, the kind you partake in only when it's not your car. House enjoys watching her drive, seeing the skirt ride up her legs, goosebumps on a pale thigh. High heels on a gas pedal, there's something y about the sight. 'She only has thighs for me,' grinning as a bead of sweat forms above his brow. It's cold outside and the heat is blasting, she enjoys making him sweat. House plays with the radio a while and settles on Christmas music, enjoying the leer she gives him at the irony. An atheist and a Jew listening to some tune celebratory of Jesus. He raises his index finger to be the conductor, mocking these angelic voices reciting a hymn.

The inclement weather does not slow Cuddy. In fact, the dismal sky seems to spurn her on and she speeds down the highway as if it's a test to see how well she remembers it. A route she has not taken since she left Michigan. At a nubile 25, and having just finished second in her class, and a year early. Never would she have considered then just how miserable she'd be now. This trip is making her consider how far she is from where she wants to be, in every respect.

And it's only just begun.

The hotel is twenty minutes from campus. The day is over when they arrive. Although, since they touched ground there has been so little sunlight that they can hardly tell a winter day from a winter night. The breaths of these miserable doctors stay suspended in the cold air as they tread through the snow and mud to the lobby. Cuddy is carrying most of the baggage. She always is. House didn't pack much and is struggling over patches of ice with his three legs at any rate. Swallowing a handful of when he makes it inside, more than a few paces behind Cuddy who has already checked them in.

_**what she drowns**_

Adjacent rooms await their entry. And they part, disappearing from the hallway, without saying a word. Neither has completely thawed and both are too jetlagged for words.

Cuddy steps in, brushes the snow from her hair, and is suddenly aware of her body temperature. This room is larger and she hopes to hide the fact from House. It is nominally a 'junior suite'. Which, as far as she can tell, means nothing except it's slightly bigger than a standard and has a couch. And costs 250 more per night, naturally. But they will only be here two nights, she realizes, not precisely happy about the point. Dropping the luggage and taking one long step to the bed, a limp body plummets. Resting a moment, disgusted at her situation. In medicine, and in life. Uncertain why she has made the choice to live in the shadow of Gregory House. To live under him, somehow. His boss and yet somehow subordinate. Frustration at his elevation, yet she is responsible. For him even having a job, really. Telling herself she's a smart woman who was very successful as a doctor. She was the first female and second youngest Dean of Medicine (at 32) at Princeton Plainsboro. _Was, _meaning isn't still.

But she should still be happy.

Pride in what's been accomplished, now she realizes she's never known happiness. The pursuit of this elusive lie may very well be what has prevented its attainment.

'I have a wonderful position.' Stagnant disbelief. 'But also less and less to do with the actual practice of medicine,' adds her mind's reigning orator. Cuddy's been living vicariously through House for years and it is time to admit it. To change it. She wants to be a doctor again. Exhausted, restless, knowing it will be a sleepless night, now she's filled with the fear that it's too late to reverse a course set in motion nearly twenty years ago.

But it is only a matter of direction and misdirection. And finding the fateful intersection.

In the claustrophobic coffin the hotel considers a shower, she makes a decision and christens herself in change. Drowning one by one all the people she's become since she left this place. The administrator, the pushover, the single, infertile, Dean of Medicine. Wanting to let every aspect of herself that is keeping her from being who she _wants_ to be spiral down the drain. To leave them here where they were unwittingly born. The steam is warm, the room is gray, and she stands here until the hot water loses its heat. This body a certain shade of pink, amaranth, when it finds the courage to step out. Expecting infinity but seeing few parallels, she stares at her toes, avoiding the looking glass a few moments more. Doctor Lisa Cuddy is cleansed now, confronting the mirror and finding someone new in its reflection. With only a towel concealing this recently reborn form, and not even possessing the energy to finish brushing her teeth, she drags her feet to the bed and naps a while.

_**what he drowns**_

In the middle of a winter night and far from home, Greg House drinks. It is an attempt at dreamless sleep. An attempt to quell his boredom. And, alcohol is a good accomplice for all the he's about to order. House was listening to her shower. He's always listening. Tonight there's worry though. A detached concern, a hint of vigilance.

The early moon has drenched the snow with a pale shade of blue. And in between the moon and the man, finite space. Because this night is different. The gaping chasm seems traversable. Everything is beginning to feel closer. It's an illusion, he knows. But what does it matter? The thought of having water within reach is real, it doesn't make the mirage real, but the feeling is its own experience. A lie, yes. But-

"For a long time I went to bed early," House slurs to himself. He tries to quote it in French but is too drunk to impress even his own company. Thinking of a dream that's been with him every night since Cuddy bribed him into this trip, he drifts asleep, liquor leaking onto his stomach. The somber moonlight saturating the length of his body in the same blue.

In this dream there are white curtains . And he can't see himself. He knows that's it is him though, somehow. Knows that this can be only his perspective. There are mirrors but no reflections. Or refractions. They are just here to taunt him, to keep the narcissist from seeing what he really wants to see. A woman with hair the color of midnight, young and faceless approaches him. An apparition. A calendar on the wall tells him it's September. House is naked but neither cold nor ashamed. He can walk and is standing now, his right thigh intact. No pain. When this phantom nears him, he's holding a camera, but can't photograph her. Doesn't even try, he just knows he can't. It's fragmented and temporal, the way dreams usually are. There's a sense that what he recollects upon waking is incomplete. Frustrating , but each night it's a little longer and something new is revealed.

Of course, he has no idea what any of it means.

Yet.

This is the night the dream must be the most inescapable. In spite of his attempts to fill his mind with flickering images of and drown his consciousness in an assorted stream of alcohol, it comes again.

A large window, in a empty room and the same white curtains. Translucent walls. He can see himself now, not in the mirrors, but looking down at his feet and legs. Naked still. There are two calendars. January, and the other is still on September. He can walk and is somehow aware of how sad it is that he can only dream this ability. In the absence of pain House approaches the woman, a really, with a somewhat familiar semblance. He takes her hand in an attempt to pull her to him but she leans away. They pull in opposite directions, hands clasped together tight.

And then they let go.

Teardrop earrings dangle, they're white. Diamonds, no. The walls fade away, replaced by great tapestries of trees. A forest. House is standing on the shore of a lake, with a book in his hand. It's heavy. Heavier than a book should be. He begins wading into the water, holding onto the book. But he's not swimming, no, he's drowning. The book is a kind of weight, a burden and he sinks slowly into the muddy colorless swamp. Sinking, his lungs filling with liquid, sinking, trying to let go of the book, but he can't. Sinking, into darkness.

Bright eyes open wide. The same shade of blue as the seasonal night light. House reaches for the bottle but it's empty and the mini bar has long been depleted. Looking at the clock, it's 3:30. A thought and then a sound to confirm it. The crumbling up of paper. Cuddy is awake. Minutes of incessant knocking later she answers the door in her robe, not especially aware of her brimming cleavage.

"It's the middle of the night. What do you want?"

'You,' his mind answers but his mouth speaks first,

"To see what you're wearing,"

A stern sigh and she crosses her arms. Peaking his head in over her shoulder,

"My mini bar is empty."

Cuddy walks over to her refrigerator. He steps in a few feet. A pile of papers spread over her bed. She must be preparing for her lecture. Perhaps also for _his_ lecture and lack of preparation. A trace of guilt but he blinks it away, enjoying her ass before she turns back around, tiny bottles in hand.

"Your room is bigger."

"No it's not."

"And you have a couch."

"So?"

"Is that a king sized bed?"

"Go back to your room, House."

"But I had a nightmare, mommy."

He's back in the hallway. Cuddy shoots a pan look begging him to be quiet.

"What do you suppose being in the woods means?" hollering drowsily, inflecting _naked_, naturally.

"It means that you are a middle aged man who has been watching too much ography at the expense of my hospital," Cuddy whispers back, particles of spit landing contemptuously on his earlobe.

"But there was a book."

The door closes.

Retreating back to his room House drinks some more, something nudging him to be nice. But the dream lingers, he knows he won't sleep again.

_**interpretation**_

Morning arrives. Both bodies somehow more tired than when they did. Another abysmally overcast day. Snow in the forecast. House is laying in bed with a mild hangover when he hears Cuddy leave her room. Motivation and his feet touch the floor, he stalks close behind.

She is stealing a very tall cup of coffee from the continental breakfast, and yawning as she leaves a puddle behind. It is a cheap buffet and she has little trust in the food. Regretting not ordering room service when House appears at her side, he looms a minute before speaking.

Modeling bedhead, an unshaven jaw, and an inside out tee shirt in a room of suits and ties, and transient businessmen, House protrudes. And she considers denying she knows the man. Like any involving him, it is a brief consideration.

"I think I've interpreted my dream."

They sit. Cuddy just sips her coffee.

"The woods symbolize the hospital, and the water, well it symbolizes change. And the woman, the woman is you. And I'm naked because well, let's face it, you want me."

The fact she hasn't stopped him by this point is a signal for him to shut up. So he does.

"Get much sleep?"

"I was up most of the night writing your speech for you. Because I know you haven't even thought about it."

"No you weren't. You were up revising your own speech. You wrote mine a week ago."

No disagreement on Cuddy's part. Lipstick on her coffee cup, the hue seems familiar to him.

"What time do we have to be there anyway?"

"Five. The lectures start at six."

"_Lectures_? How many are there?"

"Well you're the keynote, and then there are four more after you."

"I don't know why they want me anyway."

"Because you work at a _teaching_ hospital. And, you're still a legend at the university."

"Not in a good way. You're the one that graduated top of your class. You _run_ the damn hospital..."

House sips his orange juice. Cuddy knows this is his version of a compliment and it's reminiscent of a first encounter. But she shrugs it off, standing.

"And you have to wear a suit. _And_ a tie," touching his shoulder as she passes.

They spend the rest of the day separate. Alone. Cuddy revises her short speech several more times, giving herself the option of several drafts. House irons his suit and combs his hair. Both of them secretly anticipating this return. Neither aware they are sharing the same thought. Eventually, Cuddy escapes her room for lunch.

A sliver of green on the other side of the glass. In a hotel, in a place, in a season suffering from an abominable lack of color, green. It's a tennis court. A blanket of white powder covers all but one corner. And more is accumulating. It's a sad analogy Cuddy thinks, 'I am the tennis court.' Then suddenly aware of the unstable axis on which her world is spinning, she concludes this is how time must be. Everybody knows that the earth revolves, it is a truth, scientifically proven. But nobody sees the world moving, and we can be perfectly content to live oblivious to the fact it is. This same ignorance we apply to the passage of time. But there will always be rare occasions when we are reminded the ground beneath us is constantly changing. And we can succumb to existential vertigo or we can resist it and run, a race against the treadmill that consumes minutes, days, years. To convince yourself you can win this race, for even a moment to believe it, that is true happiness. Staring out at a snow covered tennis court, Cuddy decides to participate in the marathon.

It is nearly four when her hand meets his door. Nervously knocking, afraid of returning to a place that has changed. A place she won't recognize. It is the man standing in the threshold that she doesn't recognize though. It is Gregory House, the one who is nearly fifty and has 'MD' after his name, but it more resembles a doppleganger. A metamorphosis has taken place since this morning. He looks civilized, dapper even. Shaven, it's beginning to grow back but there's effort. His hair isn't just combed, it's styled. And there appears to be more of it. His ears are pinker. Eyelashes longer. Eyes brighter. Teeth whiter. Is he taller? Double breasted and wingtipped, yes. Black suit, sky blue shirt, red tie, a symbolic tricolor of fashion. Almost professional looking. Younger, Cuddy thinks, somehow he looks young.

She tries not to gape,

"Wow. Did you shave?"

"Nah. My face just fell on a razor. Happens once or twice a decade."

House smirks at the thought of Cuddy checking him out. As he tries not to limp much, tries to keep up the image, following close behind her down the hall.

Sliding doors open to a very white world. Both blinded for moment they take a step outside, their ankles immediately sinking in the snow. Finding the car is a bit like three card monte. When they finally guess the ace of diamonds, they clear it off as good as they can knowing they are running out of time. It starts, on the third try and Cuddy speeds away. The sedan heats up quickly and the windows thaw. But the snow storm is making a twenty minute drive more than thirty.

Cuddy looks beautiful against the tan leather of the driver's seat. The interior of a car is actually an intimate environment. Especially in a snow storm. It's inescapable. It's shelter. And they're sharing it. They're close enough that she can't hide from his penetrating eyes. House is watching her hands tight around the steering wheel. A grip he wishes he were a recipient of. Ivory nails and an empty ring finger. Concealed cleavage. Determined face, the white landscape mirrored in her eyes. Gorgeous lips. When she brakes as she nears the ramp to get on the highway her leg moves and House looks down, her conservative pencil skirt covering all but just the bottom of her thighs, knees lost under the dashboard. As her right foot hits the brake again, the car does not stop. It does not even slow. It slides, in a diagonal, obtuse angle towards oncoming traffic. She tries to steer in the other direction, toward a hillside, the shoulder of the ramp, but it's no use. They are the victims of icy inertia. When she realizes the uselessness of trying to steer , Cuddy extends an arm, reaching, really for anything. And finding him. House takes her hand and turning his head sees the terrified profile of a woman who's lost what little control she has in the world.

And realizes it.

In this moment, Cuddy isn't praying, or doing whatever people _should _do when they think they are about to die. She is wishing, hoping, begging for him to remember. 'This,' she thinks as his thumb is jostled across her hand. They slide until the slick substance propelling them lets the vehicle lose momentum. They've successfully spun nearly ninety degrees. The front bumper of the car is nosing into the right lane of the highway. Her hand pulls away from his quickly and they both breathe. Cuddy doesn't look at him, afraid there may be tears in her eyes. Not because of this experience but rather because she now knows he'll never remember.

1301 Catherine Road. They arrive, late. Stepping into a stuffy lecture hall filled with lab coats and those who aspire to wear them. These Princetonians and the other lecturers are herded into a corner off stage. Cuddy gives House the speech she wrote for him just as a stout, mannish woman, who is evidently in charge, urges, or rather pushes House up on stage while pointing at the face of her watch.

Standing behind a podium, awkwardly but not nervous, as the curtains open, House's cynical eyes pan across the room. Seeing students, doctors, faces he will never see again. Head turning, searching for Cuddy. For the comfort. For the forceable encouragement, 'Don't mess this up,' glare. But she's not looking at him. She's looking out. And then a hand rises to her necklace. Something he didn't notice in the car. Cuddy adjusts the jewelry, as if it's choking her, a nervous habit. Then he sees it. An earring.

And time stops, reverses direction. It all comes back. It all makes sense.

House is remembering.


	2. Azure Ephemera

II. Azure Ephemera

It is September. It is the year of the first heart lung transplant. The year prozac is introduced. The year streets have no name and every radio is living on a prayer. It is his first year at Michigan, and her last as an undergrad.

September.

Neither of them grew up in Michigan and how they both ended up here isn't something they have ever considered. But, it is, in its most conspicuous form, fate. House was expelled from John Hopkins for cheating. Cuddy had the grades and ambition to go to any Ivy league school on the planet.

And somehow, they both end up here.

Such is the context of hindsight.

_Juxtaposition as Backstory _

_**her sight**_

The very first week of her last year as an undergrad is a contradiction. It is the beginning of an end. Lisa Cuddy is both busy and bored. Classes are just beginning so there's little being taught. She is preparing for her medical school entrance exam in all her spare time, since her plans are to take it at the end of this semester. Academically it is a stalemate. Calm before the storm. In every other way, it is chaotic. She is moving, again, this time into a two bedroom apartment with two other s. A future dancer and a future actress. Or, really, a and a waitress. Her parents are abandoning her financially this year, so how she will afford medical school and this lovely little hole of a dwelling is on her shoulders. It's overwhelming, the way college usually is while you're sober.

In an attempt to escape this chaos, Cuddy attends class. At one of the classes this week, PreMed students are given a tour of the university hospital. It is not their first tour, and it is not the university's only hospital. This excursion focuses on laboratory protocol and practices. Most of these PreMed students will, ironically enough, not become doctors, and their last four years have been spent based on this assumption. Many will enter research areas, become scientists, specialists, but not MDs. So inspite of the fact Lisa Cuddy would rather be a plumber than sit in a lab the rest of her life, she drags her feet along another tedious tour of the museum that is the university hospital.

When they have just entered the hospital and briefly pass the ER, Cuddy, by chance or to end the monotony, looks down the corridor and sees him. For the first time. It is the legend, the myth, the man. It is Greg House. But he is not here as a student. He is a patient. Cuddy stops as the rest of her class passes by. She stands and, for the first time this semester, she learns.

Gregory House at twenty six years old, is exceptionally, but not conventionally attractive. He has a rather young face, the ingenuousness of which is marred by his piercing blue eyes, fringed with long dark lashes. One might not guess that he is a day over eighteen. Or perhaps it is intuitive, his immaturity. The head encasing his brilliant mind is topped with thick, untamed hair, an almost grecian shade of bronze, with seasonal highlights throughout. Accenting all of this is a tan, red brushstrokes across cheekbones and the rest of him a complimentary sepia. A clean shaven jaw, although that could be partly due to the fact some of the skin on his chin is missing. A lacrosse injury is his reason for gracing the hospital with his benevolent presence today. As a nurse cleans the gouge on his chin and a doctor finishes splinting two of his fingers, Lisa Cuddy laughs. Both at how he's heckling the aforementioned medical practitioners and at how thoroughly covered in dirt he is. Handsome, yes but she can smell his arrogance from where she stands. With this arrogance there is an energy though, a kinetic aura, he exudes, even from this distance, something more, something different than Lisa Cuddy has ever known. When House turns his head and looks down the corridor at her, Cuddy immediately ducks and runs to catch up to her class.

He sees her of course, but it is not for the first time.

_**his sight**_

Earlier this summer, Greg House, aspiring diagnostician, came to Michigan for his medical school admission interview. It was brief and ended with a y snare and proud handshake. Afterwards he was kidnapped by his new Michigan friends (or fans) and forced to leave Ann Arbor and celebrate his new admission at the lake.

The lake, as they call it, is invaded by college students for the duration of the summer. This much is still true. They build a fort, plant a flag in the ground, and claim the territory as their's until labor day.

Greg House and his inadvertent entourage reach their destination at the cusp of dusk. As his healthy right leg escapes the backseat, it becomes encompassed in an environment of tall grass and squeaky swings. He stands, forming the longest shadow he'll ever cast, and scans the scene, in an attempt to record it to memory.

The water's warm, boys and girls still denying they are adults, swim. A row of cabins are farther off in the vista. The sun is setting but nobody cares. Everything is green. The lake, the trees, the grass. Emerald, forest, paris. Vert. House is still wearing a suit. A white suit. It's an abomination, really a bet he lost, and was stuck wearing to his interview. As he migrates down a hillside from the car to the lake's coast, he takes the suit jacket off, loosens his tie and unbuttons his shirt half way. After hanging the jacket on a tree limb permanently, he settles, gets a drink, but does not socialize. Watching fireflies as they initiate a summer evening, he contemplates the ability of a bug to make light. Inhaling the fresh water's fresh air he almost, yes almost, appreciates the moment. But there is a thin line between appreciation for the fleeting and contempt for what you know can't last. And the line is hesitantly crossed.

The first time he sees her is at this lake. Or, more accurately, on it. House is on shore, pondering the meaningless of life, under a tree, with a beer in his hand when he hears a most unusual sound. It is her voice, a giggle, a gurgle, a squeal. Swiftly turning his neck he sees her, on a small boat not far from land. Lisa Cuddy is anything but a typical of the eighties. Her hair is straight, long, glistening, and ebony. She's wearing a ringer tee, the bra underneath it failing miserably in its vocation. Tight denim cut-off shorts reveal pale, porcelain skin resisting the sun's attempt to change her. The boat is crowded, there is a need for steadier footing. But, this girl stands anyway, the unstable vessel swaying beneath her. House looks on more engrossed, suspecting the catastrophe he is about to witness, preparing himself for the joy of that tee shirt when it's wet. But, she does not fall.

She smiles.

And as this complete stranger stands and smiles, the details diminishing with the distance, Greg House ceases to be objective. He is interested and can't name why. Confounded by the scale beneath her hips that is maintaining equilibrium.

A surreal rebellion against logic. Against physics.

The man, the boyish man, decides that balance is being kept by some outside force. Some existent coercion keeping her perfect body perfectly upright. That perhaps, her legs aren't legs. That everything he knows about human anatomy is a lie. She's laughing as the thought is interrupted. Over all the other noises polluting his senses, then and now, he hears that laugh. Wondering if she can see him in what's left of his white suit, just standing there, staring, he panics a little. And takes a few steps back making certain he is not in her field of view, should she cease giggling long enough to look around.

House inquires about this . To find out to his delight she is a fourth year PreMed, student, his curiosity and infatuation grow. He uncovers the details, knows more about her than he should. But he doesn't see her again. Not until the hospital. Never forgetting about this , he would often saunter through parts of campus he didn't belong in the vain hope of one day seeing that same smile.

Neither of these incidents are what House is remembering from behind the podium. They are more vivid because of what he's recalling.

And accompanying this recollection itself,

_**azure ephemera**_

It is still September. A week or two after the tour of the hospital. It is twilight. Magic hour. Night is near, but not an accurate description. Lisa Cuddy, a twenty one year old Lisa Cuddy, is in one of three campus libraries. Preparing still for the medical school entrance exam. On a balcony, used mostly by smokers, she escapes the dusty stale silence of the library's interior. She is not alone. A future pediatrician, her boyfriend, is inside passed out atop a very thick book highlighting communicable diseases of children.

The sky is a dark azure. Tangerine highlights trace the linings of the few clouds that hang overhead. On a cement ledge about half a story up, Cuddy reads for a while beneath the mosquito magnet of a lantern attached to brick. It is an endocrinology book, she already knows it will be her specialty. Honeysuckle and pine mingle in the troposphere and she sighs knowing this is the end of summer.

With the book still in her lap, Cuddy falls asleep. After a few minutes, the weight of her limp unconscious body begins leaning past the outskirts of the ledge. She's slipping, slowly, about to fall, waking three seconds too late to defeat gravity on her own. And then a hand reaches out. It takes her left, it pulls her back. She can't see who it is and assumes it's her boyfriend. A figure stands in the shadows so long that it becomes one. And after a moment, what feels like forever, she lets go of this hand and in doing so sees two of the fingers are splinted. Looking up, failing to see a face in the few footcandles of the balcony's lamp, searching for an identity, a confirmation. When he moves, about to say something, that is when she see his eyes. Revelatory blue. Cuddy swallows hard, almost choking, realizing she has just been saved by Greg House.

It is not a particularly heroic gesture. The girl was not dangling off of a cliff, or being consumed by quicksand. The only certain peril was an abrupt awakening. A fall of six or eight feet. Onto soft grass at that. But, as they stand here speechless, she is moved. Differently than she has ever been. Greg House, the narcissist, the arrogant, manipulative bastard , did something selfless. Not because he had to, or because he would benefit from it, but because he _could_. It is the first time Lisa Cuddy sees a side of him that nobody else knows.

And to their ignorance, it will not be the last time.

In an instant, with the sunshine ebbing in the horizon and the last breeze of summer wafting past, having dodged one kind of fall, Cuddy happens into another. She falls in love. It is not a choice, it is a reaction, something irreversible. Something permanent. He could have let her slip through his hands. But the stranger didn't let go. House rescued her in a subtle, abstract way. Not just from toppling off of a ledge but from something more. Some danger she will never know exactly, only that by chance, it was eluded. A miraculous spectacle. Or a spectacular miracle. It is more than what it appears to be. Immeasurable gratitude is communicated in her wordless stare. The grip, the grasp is something she'll never forget. The gratitude she will never outlive. A kind of debt must be repaid. Though she does not know it now, Cuddy will sustain a perpetual loyalty to this man, because of this brief, random encounter.

When House goes to speak, probably to ask if she's okay in his brash and youthful tenor, she comes off the cement and runs to the door, hastening inside, mumbling some grateful slur along the way.

Never looking back at him.

Perhaps as a silent shadow, he is intimidating.

As she moves away from him, House sees something. Dainty iridescence in the darkness. It is an earring. A pearl earring. It is of little consequence in this situation. But this is the irony, that a great deal of memory is built around things unnoticed, things deemed insignificant at the time.

Looking around, trying to decide what just happened, he finds her book. House considers taking it inside, just handing it to her, knowing she can't be that far ahead of him. But then he has an epiphany. This book could be a segway. An excuse, a reason, a purpose for seeing her again. So, he picks up the book and meanders out of the library.

Anticipation, for the first time, at Michigan.

_**someday**_

A few days later, as autumn and 'Black Monday' draw closer, Greg House, a boy, a man with gaul, with certain confidence, finally finds the courage to return the book. Parking his baby blue sedan a few car lengths away from her apartment, he steps out, more nervous than he usually is at the prospect of seduction. Pacing deliberately, feigning audacity, his pants are two sizes in the too tight direction, and his tee shirt is of the same make and that he will come to wear as a professional.

This developing personage treks up a flight of steps, toward what he thinks is Lisa Cuddy's apartment and along the way hears something. It is a grunt. And he ignores it. Then a sigh. Then a familiar giggle. House looks around certain he knows that laugh and curious where and why it's being elicited.

Head turning, eyes searching, he discovers he's on the wrong steps. Cuddy lives in the building next door. He knows this because he's peering into her bedroom, through white curtains, in utter dismay at what he sees. Don, her boyfriend is with her. They are bound together in each other's arms, in the afterglow of lovers' slumber. Lying on a raw mattress, the sheets and blankets and pillows are all scattered throughout her light pink room. Cuddy is giggling because she's being tickled by Don's finger as it traces across her ribs, trailing errantly toward her breasts. Atleast that's what House suspects it is doing. All he can really see is Don's backside, Cuddy's arms and feet, and earrings on the nightstand.

Finally blinking at the trainwreck he just witnessed, House gags. It is a culmination of nausea and panic. He doesn't know if he's going to vomit or hyperventilate. So, he runs as fast as he can, skipping most of the stairs, diving into the driver's seat. Sitting and catching his breath, he absorbs the disappointment. 'She was single at the lake,' he thinks. But that was months ago. Why didn't he say something then? Now looking at the book on his passenger seat, he knows he'll never give it back. Not now.

Not ever.

Returning to his own apartment, House parks and just sits in the silence. Uncertain why he is so crushed, so affected, he can not think of anything better to do. The sun sets. Hours pass. In the night, students begin crowding the street and some the sidewalks, so he goes inside.

Walking through the apartment toward the bathroom, in complete darkness, he sits on the toilet a minute and rubs his head. Eventually he turns on the light. Deciding to take a bath, he wrestles himself out of his clothes, suddenly angry, and steps into a scalding porcelain basin. House sulks a while as steam rises from his red, boiling body. After examining his wrinkled toes, he wheezes in an attempt to quell a sob and submerges his head under the water. Holding his breath, he waits. Time is suspended underwater. Motion distorted. Things are slower, lighter, less real. With no idea what he's waiting for, he closes his eyes, thinks. About anything except endocrinology. Time above the water continues in it's forward, linear passage. Then, as his lungs demand air, and he swallows a mouthful of water in a painful attempt to attain it, he knows what he was doing. What he was vainly awaiting. A rescue. Some contingent intervention that would keep him from drowning. Somebody, anybody who cares enough to drain the damn tub.

But she didn't come.

Rising, no cleaner and less than satisfied with his soggy self, Greg House does not drown tonight. No, he convinces himself that there is no scenario in which he and the undergrad he longs for could ever combine. They just weren't meant 'to be.' They are of a different caste, she's out of his league anyway. Interesting and useless self reassurance. Rather than hope, House is resigning.

When he steps out into the sitting room and sits, the boy accepts this as being the right ending. To not even start. There is no regret. As he picks up the book, the weight of it in his hands resolves a decision. He concludes that Lisa Cuddy's heart must belong to somebody else. House knows Don is not that person. He knows he isn't either. It is somebody she has yet to meet. But someday she will be found. Someday she will be loved. And in a passing and poetic state he picks up a pen and writes on the inside cover of the textbook, a single word, 'someday.'

_**aftermath**_

Following this absurd series of events suspiciously wrought with human emotion, House's first semester at Michigan eventually transpires into something normal. He drinks, a lot. And cheats on exams when he's too hungover to pass alone. He partakes in a hefty amount of horizontal pelvic thrusting with a variety of haughty coeds. Condom commercials make their first appearance on television.

Summer becomes autumn and soon winter. The boy becomes a man struggling to forget, and eventually the details fade.

He sees Cuddy sometimes. Moreso after she's accepted into the medical school. But, they never talk about that night. Or the book. Or anything significant. They become friends. House is a resident when she is an intern so they share the lifestyle. He never calls her Lisa, and she never calls him Greg. Not really. And Don hangs on a bit longer than House would have initially estimated. But eventually, like youth itself, he vanishes. And they grow up together, never knowing the mutual yearning they share.

When they both move past Michigan, Cuddy struggles to not forget and House fights to not remember. And almost, _almost_, succeeds.


	3. Kaleidoscope

III. Kaleidoscope

A pearl earring and a pearl necklace, and an engrossed audience. Present tense, yes. Loosening his tie to reveal a bobbing adam's apple, House stands at the podium still, now completely aware of what his dream means. Noise fades and soon he is staring at silent faces, waiting for him to say something.

House looks down at the speech Cuddy prepared for him in his now unsteady hand. And begins reading it,

"The Medical School was the University of Michigan's first professional school. It is with collaboration and innovation that..."

A beat.

Putting the speech in his pocket following a sardonic snicker,

"I'm supposed to give a speech about medical education. But, the truth is... "

Lost blue eyes find each other.

"The truth is, I don't know a damn thing about it. I wouldn't even have this job if it weren't for that woman (_pointing_) there. I mean, she wrote the goddamn speech for me.

What I do know is..."

Another beat. House inhales, about to make a connection nobody else sees.

"Is that the term nostalgia is comprised of two greek roots. Nostos, meaning 'returning home' and algos meaning 'pain'. It was considered a legitimate medical condition until the 19th century. It is,"

Voice ing, almost imperceptibly.

"It is an infectious disease. One of my specialties. It both is treatable and preventable.

You can avoid contracting it by - stop wasting time.

Just don't."

Looking at Cuddy but directed at the woman in charge,

"She deserves to be up here."

Walking off, "Not me."

Following a few audible confused claps, Lisa Cuddy takes the stage.

As a doctor.

She gives a riveting speech the duration of which is twice as long as it should be. After the other two lecturers after her give their short synopses, she attends a brief reception and is thrilled to have female students approaching her and confessing their admiration of her status and accomplishments. They complain about how the other lecturers were just misogynistic men and how much more challenging it is being a woman in the field of science.

Amidst this praise and past her posse, Cuddy sees a familiar piece of rubber bouncing up and off the carpet. She goes over to him,

"What the hell was that?"

House smiles and shrugs, standing.

"That was your speech. Given by _you_."

"Why must you sabotage even the smallest..."

"Wait. I didn't sabotage anything. I righted a wrong. You wanted to give that speech."

Bending down close enough to kiss her,

"You needed to give that speech."

And he turns around, jacket already on, heading for the door. Cuddy races back to get her coat, and then goes out behind him.

It is night but the campus is so sufficiently lit that it hardly matters. When she steps out Cuddy doesn't see House. Walking around a few minutes,she wanders to a building and realizes it is the library. She goes up, peers through the glass and then goes in. When she comes out a few minutes later continuing her search for House, she explores to the end of the sidewalk, decides she can't find him and starts toward the car. Then something hits her in the back. Or really, the bottom. Cuddy turns to see House standing a few meters away, a huge grin on his face and another snowball in his hand. Without hesitation he throws it at her.

Feigning disdain she sneers. But when another one hits her, this time in the face, she can't help but smile. And enact revenge. Cuddy picks up as much snow as she can, condenses it into a perfect sphere and hurls it like a major league pitcher.

War commences.

Utilizing guerilla tactics they learned as children, these doctors successfully forget they are adults. Ducking behind cars and catapulting snow overpedestrians they achieve a kind of wintery nirvana. A glimpse of joy. Of what it was like to be careless. To be young.

Continuing on this way, completely ignorant to the stares they are getting from the people slowly evacuating the premises, House slurs something about her ass being an unmissable target. The defense's weakest point (her Achilles ass). And Cuddy, playfully aggressive, throws one directly at his Trojan horse. He tries to block but drops his cane in the process, staggering and then collapsing on the ground. Laying in the snow, very aware of the concrete layer beneath it.

Cuddy comes over, knowing she's only bruised his ego, and reaches a hand out to help him up. House pretends he's getting up but pulls her down beside him instead.

"House!"

"Shhhh."

And he points to the sky. Both of them flat on their backs now, limbs tangled,staring only upward. Cobalt heavens. Spotted with stars and planets and probably a few planes. They lay like this until Cuddy's bare legs begin to go numb. Before House stands he makes a crooked snow angel,watching this woman beneath the glow of a crescent moon and beside the streak of a stray shooting star, seeing for the first time, a specter of the girl he once knew.

Leaving curious footprints as he limps to the car House is determined no, certain that recapturing what has been lost for so long is perfectly possible.

Tonight.

_**tight rope**_

When they return to the hotel, seeing her shivering House wraps his coat around Cuddy and she smiles, appreciatively. He considers putting his arm around her but doesn't. They cross the slippery parking lot and go inside.

Up an elevator and to their floor, as they part,

"See Dr. Cuddy, going back to school wasn't that bad."

And they go inside their separate rooms. House is still standing by the door when he hears her holler for him. Sticking his head out he sees Cuddy standing in her doorway holding his coat as if it's radioactive.

"Ahhchooo!" and she goes inside.

While she searches for a kleenex, House enters, tissues in hand, and gives them to her, picking up his coat as he turns to leave.

"House,"

Half nodding as he turns back, almost hopeful.

"Thank you."

"It's just a coat."

"No, I mean for tonight."

House knows this and stops. Tries to formulate a response. But just nods and mutters,

"You're welcome."

'Do something, anything,' his mind is telling him. 'Stand on your head, take off your pants. Do _something_ instead of nothing.'

"Things don't change,do they?"

House is blank so Cuddy answers her own question.

"I thought this place would be so different. It's been twenty years. And, it is different. Security is ridiculous, and tuition has quadrupled. But..."

Taking a step toward House, rubbing her arms in a shiver,

"...Like the library. I spent more of my undergraduate years in that library than in any class room or my own apartment. And it's the same. The exterior is remodeled, shinier, the paint's brighter but inside, the aisles of books are identical, the card catalogue is in the same place. It smells the same for God's sake. It's no diff-"

"Basic and Clinical Endocrinology. Greenspan. Third edition."

"What?"

An insurmountable beat. House takes a step toward her, bows his head, licks his bottom lip as she realizes what he's done.

"I didn't think you-"

"I remember."

Two words she's been waiting two decades to hear.

House knows it's true, he never forgot. Tried. It got lost, misplaced. Maybe even _re_placed by more aesthetically pleasing images of the woman's cleavage, but never forgotten.

He just couldn't forget.

While Cuddy's mind debates the accuracy and reality of what was said, House's hand rises to her face, the empty space between them vanishing. Absence or thin air, it is gone now, filled instead with an uneven posture, a friend, a memory. The past incarnate. An image retained for so long, standing before her as she remembers it. Not necessarily as it is.

With the lightest caress her eyes ascend to his and House sees in them not just the same girl he saved one September twilight but the same longing, the same frailty that is consuming him.

The promise in his eyes, the scar on his nose, the always present shadow growing back along his jaw, Cuddy knows she wants it all. Always has. Hand rising, her thumb passes over his temple, brushing his sideburn and House blinks, almost flinching.

In witnessing this susceptibility Lisa Cuddy has an epiphany of her own. That their relationship, despite its ultimate unresolution, has been sustained this entire time because of a delicate balance. A steadiness. Friendship. They could easily lose this constant, their only stability, because all they're standing on now is a tight rope. In this embrace, they are towering from immeasurable heights, a gymnasium of eyes is all that's holding onto them. It's a balancing act and when she looks down, lifting one foot to cross the other she starts to slip in. It is a small mistake.

Sometimes that's all it takes.

As his lips faintly graze hers, Cuddy pulls away, wincing. It is her attempt to stay on her feet. Uncertain if there's a safety net, she doesn't want to jeopardize what little permanence they have for something she knows will only be temporary, fleeting.

"You should go," she says, regretting it immediately.

"Change I mean. Get out of these wet clothes. It's late."

A nonplussed House nods. Unsure what to say, and doing what he's told, this man is going to have to settle for those few brief moments that ultimately dissolved into a single second. It was a glimpse, it was a grasp, and now it's gone.

Limping out of her room, strangling his cane, House is not surprised. Disappointed, angry but that's what he gets for having expectations. Walking down the hall too anxious to go back to his room, to hear her shower, to watch the numbers change on the clock until morning, until he's out of time, and they have to leave, return to a place they don't want to be, he paces down the hall. It is different here. They aren't dean and diagnostician. They are alumni, they are in college again. They are friends. They are who they were and will never be again.

The word 'chance' trespasses through his thoughts. That was his chance, and he threw it away. He hesitated, he folded. House's face heats up, pupils dilate he is panicked. Thinking,

'This is wrong. I should be in that room. With her. We should be stripping off each other's clothes, tumbling to the bed, nibbling, licking, grabbing, groping, bumping, grinding, stroking, combining. We've both been waiting for this, we both...'

And he starts back toward her room without finishing the thought.

_**kaleidoscope**_

Not entirely certain what he is going to do when the door opens, House knocks. Chest heaving, mind racing, heart pounding, he must prove a hypothesis. As soon as he hears her unlock the door, House throws his cane as far down the hall as possible. Clutching Cuddy's shoulders without even seeing her, his mouth falls onto hers. It's not a collision, it's a perfect landing. Acquiescing to magnetic attraction. A voluntary submission to gravity. Neither mundane nor maladroit it is a transcendent first kiss. Endearing, not lustful. Tender but still intense. Before his tongue can escape, House dips his head to her shoulder, exhaling, stopping at her neck before coming back up and planting another soft kiss, eyes closed, on her bottom lip,staying there until he can hold his breath no longer. Inhaling finally and deeply as he pulls back, opening his eyes, House doesn't blink. Just waits to be punched or pummeled by his boss.

But when Cuddy looks up all he can see are tiny rain drops forming in the corners or her cerulean eyes. Then a smile begins to shape. It's not a look of surprise or bewilderment, he can't name exactly what it is. Before either of them can speak Cuddy's hand tunnels through House's hair, resting on the back of his head, and she's on her bare tip toes, rising to kiss him. It is a reckless kiss, rash, brute. Trying not just to meet his mouth but to combine with it. To get lost in it. The urgency builds, it peaks and with her enveloped in his arms, tongues knot, teeth scrape.

Adduction, their torsos clash, pelvises meet, Cuddy's frenzied hands knead his back in an attempt to decide where they belong. When she finds this place,they stand, tranquil and motionless , exchanging taste, marveling in the flavor of each other's mouths. Forgetting to breathe, pretending time has stopped, passion unrequited for so long finally crests. But it is not a hurricane, or a sudden torrent. The locks did not open, the dam did not fail. This has been a slow rise. Less perceptible than disaster. A leaky faucet that has finally flooded their refuge. And denial any longer means drowning.

Cuddy comes off hesitantly, House remains in the doorway, unaware for a moment that the kiss has ended. Before he loses his balance, she pulls him in, slams the door shut, quickly locking the bolt, and hooking the restraining chain for good measure. When it sinks in, House thrusts his body toward her, uniting their lips as his weight leans heavy on this woman. A tear builds, brims, and rolls down Cuddy's cheek, a spontaneous response and he knows, brushing it away with his thumb They waltz clumsily to the mattress. Kissing cold, damp skin, House's fingers lace through her wet hair, a few snow flakes have yet to melt. They tumble to the bed, lips locked while she is attempting to loosen his tie.

A floral atrocity of a comforter catches them. Cuddy's finger is caught in the loop of his necktie, nails scratching his chest lightly and she leans forward kissing then licking the nape, lapping up what's left of aftershave. She nibbles on the collar of his shirt relishing in the familiar pressure. Laying on top of her now, House almost sighs as she unbuttons. The heat begins spilling out of dusty vents and fills the room. It is an uncomfortable heat, and before she can finish with his shirt, he brings a prescription bottle to his mouth and swallows however many are in it.

House is thinking of a time when could walk. When he could carry a woman to any part of any room and commit unnatural acts in any position his imagination could manifest. He wishes he could do that with her. For her. Be more.

Another tear crawls down Cuddy's cheek. A reaction to the sound of the pills and and the sight of him taking them. House returns to kiss the salty skin and then rests his lips on her forehead a minute. When he sits up, they look each other in the eyes, a stare, a complete conversation.

No words could ever communicate what they are feeling. No description would be entirely accurate. A wordless dialogue takes place now during which there is a confession on both their parts. It is a mutual refusal to be defeated by time. It is her admitting she has always loved him and him answering why he never forgot.

Blinking, House slowly flicks open each button of her blouse with his dextrous fingers. It drops from her body in slow motion. Cuddy's skin tightens over her stomach as a hand descends. Nuzzling her neck, his lips move to her breasts and rest there while he unhooks her bra. Goosebumps when the tips of his fingers finally touch her. Tongue skimming across a spiked nipple, Cuddy squirms, moaning for the first time tonight. House returns to her mouth. Devouring her, waiting, wanting for her to relax. So tense, still hesitant. Their mouths meet, tongues meshing. lingering,lithe. When House rises for air he sees this woman in nothing but pearls and a pencil skirt. Gorgeous. His tongue outlines a half circle around the necklace. Cuddy arches up, his warm mouth uncovering sensitive and uncharted territory. He kisses along the curve of the pearls sucking, licking all the way to the back of her neck. Nipping her ear, he comes back, rubs his sandpaper cheek to hers and then noses collide as they kiss again.

House's hips push, grind, twist against hers.The weight of him on top of her, introducing now, his hardening length. Cuddy moans before seizing him in another toe curlingly fantastic kiss. A hand smoothes down over his chest, splaying her palm over his heart and kissing his neck, his chin, his open mouth. Tiny fingers tickle his belly and then lower quickly to flip open the fastening of his pants with one practiced move. The zipper splits against the back of her wrist as she sweeps a hand deep inside. Strong fingers wrap around him and House mumbles some profanity as she gives one firm stroke through the cotton.

Hips crash again. House slides up, mounting, heaving pelvises coincide. Pants slide a little farther down. Under his labored breaths, House speaks into her shoulder. Kissing down her arm, her hand rises to his face, softly cradling his cheek, Cuddy sees the lacrosse scar, obscured now, under the growing beard. Maybe it's not really there, maybe she's imagining it, it doesn't matter, her lips meet his chin anyway.

And House closes his eyes, aware of exactly what she's doing.

Visible or not, they are both scarred. They are both scared. Neither one is prepared for what they have successfully reached the middle of.

House kicks his pants away and Cuddy's toes edge them off the bed. Her foot scales up his bare hairy calve, and back down, resting in the alcove of his ankle. Hands graze over his shoulders and around his back, holding him unfathomably close as her lips find his once more. A drop of sweat, or a tear, drips off his face. House doesn't look at her now but buries his face in the corner of her neck. Kisses the collarbone, her chest and shoulder. Licks the flat surface beneath her chin. Both are barely breathing now, Cuddy's aimless fingers run through his hair, his sweat on the tips, and erection pressing into her . Moving lower, House sucks one nipple , and lets his tongue snake between her breasts gnawing, wanting to eat, to consume every inch of her. Closed eyes, inhaling, tasting. Cinnamon. Savoring the flavor, an involuntary moan at how delicious this all is. How delectable she tastes beneath him. Continuing down, his beard scratching along her abdomen, he unhooks her skirt then stops and dips a finger into her belly button. Cuddy smiles, almost giggling as he draws circles, reveling in responsibility for that smile. Looking up at her, grinning, he pauses for a long beat.

As he rolls off of her, House braces on an elbow and examines this woman. Trying to hold onto these moments as they pass. A hand still on her hip, he needs to get her out of that skirt. But it rises instead, to her face, a moist finger graces her cheek and his thumb traces over a full lower lip. An urge to speak but he knows words would only spoil all of this. So, his hand comes back down resting just below her hip, rubs her leg through the skirt and then fingers find the zipper. Cuddy takes a deep breath and raises up so he can slide it off. An expression on her face indicative of prom night. Amid her anticipation she seems so nervous still, uncertain. She bends her knees a little when the skirt is gone. As a kind of protective reflex, as if to cross her legs. And although he'd like nothing more than to dive in now, rip off her panties,devour, penetrate, lick, thrust,suck, bite, kiss, grope, and generally copulate with this woman until the first day of spring, House stops.

Hovers a moment. He can sense her hesitation, and isn't sure what it means. Holding her foot a minute, he massages the arch while he thinks. Traveling up to her ankle, trying to force relaxation, he looks at her. House bows his head and kisses her knee, the touch loosening the joint that's keeping her thighs clasped shut. Their gaze is kept as his lips trail up the leg, nose dragging intermittently until it reaches the inner most part of her thigh.

Eyes finally part. Seeing a birthmark, House's head tilts and he blinks. But s demoting it to such mundane status. It is a mole, really.There's something unique about it, though, maybe moreso than any of her other features. It is anything but ordinary. An anomaly. Static breath builds and he kisses this mark letting his mouth until he decides it is perfection. Air from his nose circulating between her legs, the humidity is making her more taut, tight. Resting his head here, a sideburn tickles the porcelain limb, and House closes his eyes attempting to dream.

It is an awkward position. It usually is. Like puzzles pieces, forming a strange shape, but they fit. They belong together. Like this. It is the only way to see the whole picture.

In this embrace they are not cold anymore. Or alone anymore.

They are home.

With his vain attempt to dream, Greg House discovers that as much as he wants to deposit his mouth a few inches over, trace out letters with his tongue and murmur all of his life's secrets into her while letting his long fingers curl inside and...

He can't. Not now.

So he sits up, stares at her, entranced by the possibility. And he sees it in her eyes. Summer. Pain. Fear. The same expression from September, when she awoke about to fall. It is a fear of falling, of losing control, slipping away. Radiating reluctance. She looks so young now. House stares at her suddenly sad, concerned, aware. Incapable of even blinking.

"What is it?" Cuddy asks.

House shakes his head, knowing he can't say exactly what he's thinking. Knowing he doesn't deserve her. Knowing this isn't the time.

"You're beautiful."

The only thought his brain would let his heart to concede to his mouth. And in the glow of dim tungsten incandescence it is true. A single lamp, a cheap light with an even cheaper bulb, is the only thing illuminating this couple. The woman is more than beautiful beneath him. More immaculate than he can remember her ever being. She is someone he used to know.

A again, fragile, , at his mercy.

Flawless.

And he is just a defect, wavering between her legs, preparing to take that all away from her. There is no reason for dulling the er of this pearl.

So he comes up, abruptly ending the stillness, brings his face to hers and kisses her gently on the lips, the eyes, the forehead, and collapses at her side. Not sighing, not even breathing, just knowing this is right.

An arm behind but not around her, Cuddy lies still a few minutes, not entirely certain what just happened. Then she reaches over, turns off the lamp, returning to nestle herself in his embrace. House covers them both in the blanket, and their body temperatures return to normal. Eyelashes tickle his bicep as she dozes off, quickly asleep.

Tonight House doesn't need to dream. The dream has been realized. It is tangible, breathing, dreaming itself, beside him. Staring out at the cloudless sky, observing the way moonlight attaches to this , he is still consumed by retrospection. Looking through the window, where starlight bends at the , he wonders if it is in fact, the light of the past.

Shining through.

But is can't be that simple. No, perhaps it is more like a lens. Convex and concave elements aligning, a specific quantity of yesterday's sunshine beaming through an iris, producing an upside down latent image on our consciousness that can only be revealed through recollection.

But really, it is much more abstract. The transparent thing through which the past shines is constantly changing. It is a window and a lens. A mirror and a projector. Intangible optical translucence. A kaleidoscope constantly rotating. Varying symmetries, faces, places, moments, remembrance. Colorful patterns, coalescing, combining are experiences. Youth fades, the shades of the rainbow change, residing at a seemingly reachable end of a tube.

But this spectrum of light and color is inaccessible. The scope immeasurable, the images infinitely transient, perpetually regretful. Yet we are compelled to turn, continually finding altering beauty, evolving forms, variegated reflections, pictures, shadows that comprise memory, youth, life itself.

Looking at the woman by his side, House now understands that it is no longer merely a memory he is in love with. It is the flesh, the , the hair, the body, the soul beside him. And though her heart may not belong to him, this doctor falls in love and then he falls asleep.


	4. A Shadow on the Moon

Title: Summer Light

Pairing: House/Cuddy

Rating: M

Summary: mirrors/dreams/december michigan/memory/september

A nostalgic love story. Part 4/4

Notes: Read, review, and enjoy. Thanks

Warnings: This chapter gets pretty intense, hence the rating.

IV. A Shadow on the Moon

Sunk inside blankets on an unfamiliar mattress, finally comfortable, Lisa Cuddy awakes confused. Squinting, the first few conscious moments of her day are spent under the assumption it was all just a dream. It usually is. But, eyes focus to see the body an inch from her nose, blocking most the gradually increasing daylight. Sideways, her tiny frame is behind his, spooning, locked with her employee. She has an arm wrapped around him, a palm in the center of his chest cherishing the rhythm of his heartbeat

Morning is here too soon, she thinks, suspecting time itself has made a mistake. Cuddy closes her eyes, holds him tighter, closer, effort for a bond, a connection while he still sleeps.

Regret immediately, knowing the night should not have ended the way it did. Longing for a cure for her sick and hibernating heart, some heat to melt the frozen tears, she sighs, breathes into his arm and then kisses it, closing her eyes. It has been such a long December. If winter ends, she will reconstruct herself. Deconstruct herself. Lisa Cuddy knows she waited years for last night. But the woman builds _walls_ around herself. Hollow walls, immeasurably high walls. Impenetrable barriers keeping anything she wants on the other side. Afraid that if she gets what she wants it won't be enough. That she'll be disappointed. Afraid of happiness. Of taking the chance. Last night was an attempt. A final failure.

Resting her forehead on Gregory House's back and wishing she could turn back time, she contemplates what exactly extinguished the evening. They had been together once before, swore they would never do it again, but never really meant it. It was an impulse, desperate, inevitable.

But not enduring.

It doesn't matter here though. Here they are friends not colleagues. Students not doctors. Here nothing endures. The entire trip is temporary. Even she can't understand her hesitation. She's loved him for half of her life. Neglected any real relationship under the naive precept that they will one day recognize each other as more than what they are. What they are in New Jersey. Cuddy has never wanted anyone but him, and is now admitting it seven hours too late to change anything. They must leave today, return to a state of denial. But this will follow them. This shadow, this silhouette of what they could be. It's a ghost really, that's been stalking them both. Something vague they're not seeing. Or are ignoring. Now though, after screaming for the sunlight it comes. Rising slowly, drawing departure closer, melting the eternal snow. Time is merciless, and they lay here wasting it. She swore she'd change, but hasn't. She fell for the promise of a life with a purpose, but knows that's impossible now. She isn't who she wants to be and knows she never will be.

'I spent my entire youth struggling to become what I thought I wanted to be and the rest of my life convinced I'd rather be something else.'

A personal observation, but it is dawn. A new day. A brighter day. A day closer to spring. And change in the weather is sufficient enough to recreate the world and her perception of it.

A romantic pragmatist, but not hopeless as she drifts asleep again.

**_inevitable eclips_e**

Shrill, appalling noise. A phone, centimeters from her ear, it seems.

Untangling reluctantly, Cuddy reaches to answer it.

"The time now is 6:15."

A wake up call. And, a wake up call.

Their flight leaves in two hours. Feeling time pressing down on her,pushing her forward, she just wants to stand still. Stay in place, stay here.

Dropping the receiver she turns back over, tightening her arms around House even more, squeezing him, bringing him so close, promising in the silence to never let go. Not again.

And then she looks out the window.

A resplendently rose sunrise. An amalgamation of hues. Just outside, covering the canvas sky. Pastel pink, a carnation in the barren tundra. Gold contours in a cloudless horizon, turquoise occupying the space in between. Undeniable summer light, illuminating _everything_. Here, in the dead middle of winter. It is a sign, a warning. A cue.

Lisa Cuddy is wide awake now. Loosening her hug around House, firm breasts against his back, hard nipples nearly nudging him awake, she kisses his neck, shoulder, arm. A hand moves across the breadth of his chest circling a nipple, tugging at chest hair, grazing his abs, stopping at his belly button. Then a curious finger slips inside his briefs and draws a horizontal line under the elastic, dipping in deeper midway.

Needing still to be closer, to be impossibly tangled, together, bound, her leg rises between both of his, bending, letting her knee rest just below his scrotum. Finally her hand brushes against his stiffening cock, and stays there. As she gently strokes him through the cotton, House's eyes open and he turns, straining to see her, until he's on his back.

Cuddy touches his face and smiles. It is the smile he remembers, at last. The man could want nothing more. Sparkling sapphire eyes burn through his exploding heart and she kisses him. A culmination of nostalgic exigency. A carnal expression of regret, longing for the ephemeral to last, to return. Lips crushing against each other, a matrimony of mouths, infiltration of tongues, quiet, violent, bruisingly desperate, as if lost time might be found by merging completely, by mixing breaths, by wanting it badly enough.Closing their eyes, they beg time to rewind, or atleast to stop.

It is a surreal coalescence of past and present, light and love.

Time does stop for them. It reverses. It begins again.

And then it ceases to exist.

House tries to pull her down, keep her mouth on his until he's completely conscious, but she pulls away, kissing him on the cheek,the chin, sucking his neck, nibbling his collarbone, licking each nipple, leaving a slippery line directly to his hips. Bucking subtly in anticipation when her nose reaches the top of his waist, a hot gust from her nostrils then she tugs his briefs down. And in an impressive act of prestidigitation, they disappear. Revealing the most beautiful, swollen, intact, crimson cock. It is its own aesthetic. Cuddy tries not to gape, covets it a moment and House expels a surprised gasp, certain that this can't be real.

Kissing the still hardening length she takes it in her hand, stroking skillfully a few times. Determined to devour every inch of him, she starts at his hips, the corner of a thigh, it's growing in her hand, the widening girth tightening her grip. A guttural plea slips past his lips, begging for attention to be redirected. But she doesn't stop, her mouth maps his entire pelvis. Licking the crease between his leg and testicles, kissing from the thigh down to the knee, encircling his erection with her entire mouth, tantalizingly slow, when she returns to his stomach, her chin running across the engorged shaft, Cuddy sees something. Blonde hair. It could be gray, but in the unnaturally warm winter light, it seems blonde. Reminiscent, familiar blonde. And she realizes from this perspective, she can't tell how old he is. Then she swallows him with the belief they are still in their twenties. Her fiery mouth drops down, fitting more of him inside than either imagined was possible. Stifling her gag reflex, wanting this too much, she crams him in deeper. Then rises up, her slick tongue slowly massaging him. Sucking at just the right intervals, a thumb traces the straightest line up the underside of his shaft, the grip chokingly splendid, the friction sustained in spite of superfluous lubrication. House jerks, his manhood seeping, crying now, begging for release. Anticipatory tears fill her mouth, Cuddy's tasting his salty precursor. She drinks it without hesitation and continues extracting more.

Sucking, pulling her head up, she kisses him again, reveling in the boundary of his ecstasy. In the flavor of him. In her ability to bring him to this place.

In a blurry blink, Cuddy sees what she thinks is a tan line, sunkissed summer skin, a glimpse of forgotten youth. Then, in an attempt to recapture it all, becomes insatiable, flaming, hungry for more. Frantically fellating, she almost wants him to come now, so that she can swallow every drop of his transitory substance. Show him how much she loves him, has loved him, trusts, wants, needs, remembers him. How she craves for this connection. Knowing also, that ending it here would keep her from being any more vulnerable. It would leave her in control.

House grits his teeth, hands fisting the sheets as pleasure pulses through his body in torrid waves, his boss's ravenous hair cascading over his stomach and legs, brushing with every sharp, shifting movement of her head.

Hearing Cuddy purr, perpetuating his inevitable euphoria, House, with a wail of complete surrender, buries his head deep into the pillows, digs his fingers into her back, bracing for climax this way, in seconds.

But the woman rises, bringing her mouth with her, that treacherous tongue peaks out, and those glorious lips form an almost timid smirk. She's blushing, staring at him, unsure what happens next.

After a minute, Cuddy climbs up to lie beside her winded diagnostician, they gaze in a sideways daze, catching their breaths. Smiling. Their breathing synchronizes. They kiss, innocently, as if they aren't sweat soaked nostalgic lovers approaching rapture, but shy endearing virgins preparing to forfeit their virtue. It is brief but for once, feels much longer. Innocence, arrogance, a hint of happiness. With his hand on her cheek, House can sense something. Emptiness. Eagerness. The undying need to fill a space with an object, a silence with a sound, existential vacancy with presence. Fulfill the incomplete.

Intuitively, his hand travels down her side, caressing over her curves, resting on a hip. Then it slides behind, descending until it reaches the back of her thigh, and lifts her outer leg, bringing it over to rest on top of both of his.

They are knotted, together.

So close.

His hand explores her abdomen pressing on the supple skin, admiring the muscle, stopping just above hair. He traces the shape teasingly.Stroking along the length of her wet folds once, twice, then House's fingers dip inside. She gasps, grips his arm, and craning his neck, he licks her nose. With her first muffled moan, he pulls out, looks at her, gauging her response, and then pushes back in.

A thumb grazes her clit, making her squirm beneath his palm. Extraordinarily tight, even around his fingers. Every muscle below her waist is twitching, incinerated. There's a sweet ache building slowly, originating in some unidentified part of her anatomy intensified by the throb of his astoundingly stiff cock,vertically wedged between them and the puddle of wetness it leaves as it slides across her skin when he involuntarily jerks, crossing the narrow space. Suddenly fingers evacuate and he brings them to her mouth. Cuddy sucks blindly at them, licking herself off of his hand. Then he puts them into his own mouth, one by one, tasting the sweetness, watching her eyes beg for their return. And they do, plunging in deeper, moving faster. Bending his wrist, his fingers reach for the rough spongy place on the front wall, curling inside her, short nails scraping, creating such unimaginable friction. When he finds the perfect spot, he presses harder, rubs her clit faster, strokes longer, deeper - her toes curl, spasms start, she's so close.

But the hand retreats and before she can react, House turns over with swift urgency and brings her flush quivering body with him. She is straddling this man now facing him, flat on the bed, but it doesn't feel like a bed. No, they're lying on air. Her saturated core is resting on top of his pulsing erection, pushing into his belly, and she bends down, kisses him, grinding, sliding up and then down the length. Leaning forward along the height of his body her breasts press close into his chest, he fondles, nips, sucks. And finally grabs them, the hold strengthening the more she taunts him.

After titillatingly mingling, spreading each other's sweat and lust thoroughly, Cuddy stops moving a minute. She's reconsidering astronomy, doubting that the world is spinning on some fixed axis, certain right now that it must be revolving around them. Kissing him one last time, she pulls away quickly, rising and grinning.Feeling suddenly hollow, she realizes something.

Even walls fall down.

Then her hand slips between them, it takes House, holds him, and guides him in. As she eases down onto him and he steadies her hips in a possessive grip, Cuddy exhales sharply, knowing her body isn't quite ready,but that her soul has been waiting years. She holds her breath and watches him watching her. Both knowing penetration is more, it's reunion, it's doing now what they should have done then. Fusing the fleeting and the fundamental, arriving finally at a destination they travelled so far,waited so long to reach.

Adjusting to the strange sensation of his satin shaft sliding through her, Cuddy rides him slow at first. Sets a pace, languid, deliberate, hypnotic, her hips rise just off of him and come back down. With arms tight around her back, he tries to keep her down longer, but she resists, keeping the movement tantalizingly shallow. Framing his face in her hands she examines House and sees for the first time in a long time, the man she fell in love with, the boy that saved her. Behind his eyes there's pain, a layer of cynicism glazing the front, but underneath it all they're the same, luminescently, lightening blue. Then, cognizant of some invisible quintessence emanating from him, some transitional aura surrounding both of them, her body remembers and she engulfs him completely, pushing him painfully deep, concentrating only on bringing him to paradise, provoking bliss, obliterating anguish. Saving him.

While Cuddy writhes silently, squinting, every muscle in her body taut, House is kissing her jaw, chin, neck and as his lips ascend to her ear his nose detects something. Sunscreen, freshly cut grass. The scent of the lake in her hair. Both of his hands rise, clutching her face and they kiss, eyes shut, mouths open, inhaling - smelling only summer, tasting only yesterday, seeing only each other. It is 1987 again. When their lips part, Cuddy leans back, arching, twisting, burying him deeper, grabbing his ankle as she controls the pressure, direction and rhythm. House is spread eagle, helpless just watching her in the throes of passion. It's like a fantasy as she brings a hand to her head and tosses her hair back. While inciting his ecstasy and enjoying this dominance she has a delicious pang of anatomical awareness, of everything going on inside of her, his oozing glans, the texture of his frenulum, kinesthesia, bulging veins and the blood flowing through them, she's certain she can count off his pulse like this. And continues rocking in a rhythmic trance with a new appreciation for biology.

House interjects the agonizing silence with a desperate roar, a cry for relief, suddenly hotter, thicker and Cuddy shrieks, squeals, jerking her hips in response. He moans again at the sound of her satisfaction. Their voices harmonize, becoming an underscore for this sensationally salacious scene. Their carnal melodies soar softly through the atmosphere, one sad and delicate,the other loud and out of key, a choral composition, a breathless concert.

A duet of adoration on the edge of exaltation.

And then a refrain.

Knowing she is approaching her limit and in an attempt to be noble, House seizes control, driving in devastatingly deep, hips bucking erratically, their shifting pelvises collide as he pumps relentlessly into her. Fingers dig into her ass,

hands pushing down, holding it, thrusting so hard and so fast that it is impossible to tell where one body ends and the other begins. Cuddy's muscles constrict around his shaft as it thrashes through her impaling deeper each time, finding an angle, a speed,a depth she never imagined possible.

The wet sound of their bodies becomes convoluted with their gasps, their thundering heartbeats and the sound of the headboard banging against the wall, waking if not arousing the hotel guest next door.

Cuddy's nails scratch his arm, her hand strangling it, feeling the exhilarating rush of lust rising, drawing her closer. With each movement the waves build inside her, overlapping and intensifying, bringing her to the brink.

Keeping her there.

"God." An inaudible utterance.

From a woman who wants to believe. In God, maybe. In something more than administration, more than medicine. But all she really believes in is a man. The mortal between her thighs. Initiating a joy, a thrill, a sense of completion. Connecting the unconnected, curing her of the affliction of unhappiness. She believes in House. And in this effort to form a fusion before their evanescent souls evaporate completely.

'Believe in me because I believe in you,'

Cuddy's brimming eyes beg. Anticipating now, some stellar event, an astral occurrence, a syzygy, something cosmic, phenomenal about to take place.

It is a deceivingly intimate embrace. Obscenely sentimental. Both know it's not some arbitrary physiological exchange, it's desire, weakness. Clarity. An intersection. Soul and body meeting, melting together.

Lost reflections of time ricocheting off of some prism within.

House brings his face to the side of her neck, his nose nudging her ear,

"Lisa."

A slur, annunciated as two words, intoxicatingly inspirational persuasion, trying to get her to relax, capitulate, come.

Tantric flux but she's holding back. As long as she's on top of him, riding, restrained she's in control. Hesitant to give that up. Terrified of letting anybody see her weak, defenseless. Afraid of falling, again. House brings his forehead to hers, staring at lashes until her eyes find his.Lucidly composed, convincing,

"It's okay. I've got you. Let go."

And she comes apart. For him, with him, in his arms - a complete surrender. House is transfixed inducing a breathtakingly magnificent orgasm in this woman, he's watching, listening, tasting, feeling every detail. The shape of her mouth, a bead of sweat trickling down her cheek. An expression on her face he's never seen before and will never see again. She comes with grace, pirouetting on him, biting his lip hard, utterly enraptured. Isolating the sounds of her pleasure he hears a gasp, a whimper, an irrepressible scream - inconceivably amplified when she shouts his name - a gushing, guttural 'Greeeeggg!' There is no vernacular equivalent for what she is feeling. And he fucks her harder, his length piercing some anatomical barrier, prolonging the orgasm and she tenses, convulsing, trembling. Then she freezes, inhales, looks at him, amazed he can do this to her.

Cuddy gives him a gracious kiss while the orgasm slowly fades. House is tired, hips strained, legs weak. But there's no pain. Adrenaline, endorphins, her sheer determination to make him happy, something is blocking it. This is the most incredible he's felt in a long time. At least ten years. He almost doesn't want to come. Not yet. He doesn't want this to end. Not today, not ever.

So he holds his breath, closes his eyes, claims her mouth with his own, kissing until he runs out of air. Kissing longer, almost suffocating, pulling away just before he passes out.

Dizzy, high even - a new elevation, his knuckles knead into the small of her back, Cuddy speeds up grinding him farther into her dripping wetness, riding with complete abandonment, inner muscles squeezing him, and it starts rising again. House rolls his hips under her, thrusting shallow at first, moving in circles. She blows into his mouth at this thrill, so close to the same the electricity as when the met. They've moved so much, his ankles are dangling off of the bed.He's pulsing, burning, swelling inside her, they're making so much more than love. Pumping into her as they synthesize, he kisses her, tenderly and with eyes open tasting the champagne she drank after her speech last night and something else - honeysuckle. She pulls away and smiles, urging, telling, begging him to come for her, in her. His hands have moved from her thighs to either side of her ribs, Cuddy takes one, weaving their fingers together, laying their reunited grasp on the bed. House turns his head and kisses the back of her pale hand, looking back up at her with bright transparent eyes, exposing his fear of this ever ending. He closes them, she brings her mouth to his ear and whispers,

"Never forget." Almost inaudible and under her breath, a fragment of a broader thought. A request, a plea, an undying wish.

Opening his eyes, House grips her hand tighter, their palms fusing, lips uniting, a tacit substantiation of his promise to never lose this moment, this feeling. And he thrusts deeper, harder, once, twice, again, pulling her down on to him with his free hand and her rocking slows, eyes close. Then he stops, starts, synchronizes his movement with hers, it builds. Cuddy brings her face to his, noses touching, mouths wide open combining air, merging life. In awe and with a resonating surge of renewal, House juts up spilling, pouring, filling her with tangible sticky heat, transient essence- and she falls apart again, shattering, flames flaring between her legs, their mouths ceaselessly connected, another load escapes but he doesn't blink he just watches her take it, accept it, enjoy it. Their exhausted gasps echo as it sears through them. It's heroic, revival, rebirth. A manifestation of mutual unrequited yearning.

They are simultaneously defeated by the way they remember each other.

With this completion- a consummate culmination, a mutual epiphany:

Time's not a line it's a circle.

The end is just the beginning. Every event, every experience connects, repeats. Linear time is the myth of the flat earth. The world must be level, how else are we be standing up, not falling away into the abyss? Why else is the horizon horizontal? It seems this way, yes. Subjective observation. So we accept the flat earth as fact. But an observant few find clues, pieces of the puzzle -stars, planets, round bodies in the heavens. And then one day an eclipse, a full moon in the plane of earth's orbit and we see our shadow. A perfect sphere, a confirmation that few suspected but most never conceived true. The impossible is suddenly possible. A lunar revelation, eternal recurrence revealed, validated - levity. Time is the same shape. Life is not a straight line. There is no 'now.' The present is nonexistent, over before you can pronounce the last syllable. The future is a theory, a lie. The past is easily accessible, always attainable. We can revisit, recapture, relive, the circularity is unending. Memory is omnipresent, infinite, our only true possession. Like time and our world, life is a perfect circle.

And they've discovered this, together.

Radiant and flushed, Cuddy starts to lean off of him, suspecting he hurts by now, but he stops her, pulls her back into his arms. Clinging, trying to seem demanding or abrasive, but she knows he just needs her closer. Hugging, kissing any part of her body his lips can reach, House finally appreciates the fleeting. And he holds the only woman who's ever really known him at all in a silent lull as she drifts asleep. They are going to miss their flight. They may have already. But it makes no difference. They've inherited the past, resolved their conflict with time. Neither one of them wants to go back. Both now doubting in their afterglow that they even can. Greg House wrote 'someday' thinking it would never come. But it did, someday is today. And tomorrow it will be yesterday. They've consummated something rare, unrepeatable, something they've never done before. They've wed the temporal, the temporary, the carnal.

Confronted an ephemeral composition of disjointed memories, symmetrical, identical, fractured, and aligned them, restored them, created countless more. Cracked open each other's chests and mended their broken hearts.

Transcended time.

With the warmth and comfort of his unconscious boss on his chest, House looks around and knows he'll never forget this. Not this room or this hotel. Or this sunrise. Never this woman entangled with him in so many ways, sprawled across this bed. The man is doomed to be painfully, permanently nostalgic.

Continuing to memorize his surroundings, he sees her pearls on the nightstand. A double exposed image on his mind. She's worn pearls before but in New Jersey he could ignore them. They were farther from the meaning, their origin. He had to see them in context to remember everything. Returning, he may not be able to change the way he sees them now. Or the way he sees her. He may not be able to forget again. Afraid now, that he may not even want to try.

Looking at her suitcase and a very thick folder on it labeled 'Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital Administration,' House knows they both ended up becoming something other than what they planned to be. Cuddy's life has been led by her need to be in control. It even surpassed her childhood dream of being a doctor. And House's was sabotaged by his personality, his arrogance, his unconformity. Genius is his downfall, his obsession with puzzles his only motivation. But they are together. Fate, chance, choice something continually reunites them. With undetermined consequences this trip will be a reminder, a hint at their potential. Something they can never forget.

House's cane is halfway down the hall. But it doesn't matter. For now, he has two legs, he can walk, he's still twenty six years old. And must remember to avoid mirrors that would disagree. Reveling in the the arrival of someday, he knows he still has the book somewhere, faded, discolored, among many more on a dusty shelf. He'll always have that book, but he'll never let her know.

January is weeks away. A new year, a new beginning, closure. Change. But some things will stay the same. They will work together, bicker, flirt, jeopardize their jobs for each other. They will remember, they will always remember.

It's been so long since they've seen the lake, House wonders if they ever will again, not knowing of course, that it is only a matter of time.

So there you have it. I philosophized a little. I'm wacky like that. But this is as close to a happy ending you'll get from me, I think. This was born out of my own perpetual nostalgia and the fact I've read too much Proust. Also I sort of imagined this taking place mid 5th season,incase anyone was curious. Um, let me know what you think. (feel free and leave a novel sized review)

Also I wonder if anyone notices that I write in the present tense. Most prose well, all prose I think is written in past. So, this makes me weird. But I do it basically out of habit, what I normally write are screenplays, which have to be in present tense. Just wondered if anyone noticed.

Thanks for reading.


End file.
